


Worst Dressed List

by BadBadBucky



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadBadBucky/pseuds/BadBadBucky
Summary: Vince finds himself on Cheekbone's Worst Dressed List. And even worse, Howard is on the best dressed list.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24
Collections: Bringing Back the Boosh 2020 Fic Exchange





	Worst Dressed List

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thatswherethelightgetsin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatswherethelightgetsin/gifts).



“Vince, I am leaving in ten seconds. You said you were almost ready two hours ago. We are not missing soundcheck again. I won’t have it! That tech has no idea what he’s doing.”

Vince finally emerged from his bedroom. “Alright, cool your boots! Perfection takes time!”

If Howard wasn’t so annoyed then he might have thought that Vince looked quite beautiful. A shimmering sequined cape of blues, greens, and purples. He’d also done elaborate eye makeup that swooped down over his high cheekbones. But Howard was annoyed and so he resolutely did not take notice of any of this. He got so sick of always having to wait around for Vince. Just because he was the face of the band he thought he could swan about and do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. Howard had had just about enough. 

“Can we go now please?”

“Aren’t ya gonna say anything about my outfit?” Vince asked. 

“It sure is an outfit. Let’s go.”

“What’s the big rush? Show don’t start for two more hours.” Vince fixed his hair in the reflection of the window. 

“I told you. That tech muted my mic last week”

“I’m sure it was just an accident.”

“He did it on purpose. He doesn’t like me.” 

“I think you’re overreacting.” 

“I’m not. Alright? And maybe you’re underreacting. How do you think Electro Boy sounds with no backing vocals?”

Vince scrunched his nose. Mulling over the question. “Better?”

“Get downstairs.” 

***

Vince couldn’t figure what Howard was so upset about. It always took him a while to get ready. Though maybe he’d pushed it a bit tonight. He’d gotten a tip that a photographer from Cheekbone was going to be in the audience tonight. This could be his chance to vault himself from spot 4 on the best dressed list, where he had plateaued, to spot 3. He’d already chosen his outfit. He’d made the cape himself and he thought it might be the coolest thing he’d ever created. He had to make sure the rest of the look did it justice so it took a bit of extra time. 

***

After the show Howard drove home by himself. He carried the equipment back inside by himself. And he went to bed by himself. Vince was still out. Basking in the glory of all his little fans. 

Howard was so sick of Vince getting all the attention and glory when Howard was the one who wrote the actual music. But they just heaped all of that praise on Vince, as if he needed any more attention, leaving Howard with nothing. It had been this way since they were kids. Vince started that first band with Leroy and from then on he was Vince Noir Rock N Roll Star. He was never the same again. And in a way neither was Howard.

There was one cell in his brain that asked if he wasn’t actually jealous of the people who got to swoon over Vince with such fervor. That they were able to make their feelings known. Scream “Vince I love you!” at the top of their lungs whenever his gaze happened to fall in their direction. But the rest of Howard’s brain cells took this one soppy twit round back and beat the shit of him. And that was the end of that. 

The next day Howard wasn’t alarmed when he heard a soft shriek and then a muffled thump. Vince used the fainting couch they’d found at the antiques fair at least once a week. Some celebrity couple would break up or Gary Numan would release another greatest hits album, and Vince would conveniently collapse upon the purple zebra print fainting couch in a delicate heap, with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead like a damsel in an old timey movie. 

Howard let out a long sigh. He had been about to put on  _ Scooby Scrappy and all the Damn Doos  _ by Bushwhacker Simms and go into a jazz trance, but now that was out of the question. If he didn’t go out to “revive” Vince quicksmart then Vince would come into his room, get the news (a term that was being used a bit too loosely for Howard’s taste) again, and then collapse into Howard’s arms. It lengthened the whole process and they had to get ready for that night’s gig. He stood up. 

He opened his door to find Vince still pretending to be out cold, lying on the couch wedged between their doors. 

“Alright Vince. What is it?”

Vince didn’t stir. Oh he was really laying it on thick this time.

“Gary Numan go missing over the Galapagos? Hm? Mick Jagger buy new boots?”

Vince still didn’t move.

“Vince. Either tell me what’s going on or I’m going back in my room.” 

He took a couple steps back into his doorway.

“Door’s closing in 3...2...1…”

Howard did not actually close the door but he did make a door closing squeaking sound with his mouth, which he cut off abruptly when he still got no reaction from Vince. 

“Vince. Enough. It’s not funny.”

Howard noticed Vince’s head was at a rather uncomfortable angle. And Vince never went this long without having to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling. Vince was a brilliant prankster conceptually, but they never worked when he did them alone because he could never keep himself from smiling. That was where Howard came in, he had a poker face for the ages. Vince would have smiled by now. Which meant he had actually fainted.

A cold jab of panic stabbed through Howard’s heart. 

With a cry of “Vince!” Howard rushed forward. He cradled Vince in his lap. He tapped Vince’s cheek. “Coooome on little Vincey. Wake up now,” he said in a bizarre singsong. “Up you get.”

Finally Vince’s eyes fluttered open like a Disney princess. He looked around, a bit disorientated. Then he spotted Howard and threw his arms around Howard’s neck.

“Oh Howard. It’s ‘orrible!” He sobbed.

“What is it little man?” Howard asked. Worry creasing his brow.

“I’m done. It’s all over for me.”

“Vince. Talk to me.”

Vince pointed at a copy of Cheekbone lying tented on the floor beside the fainting couch. 

Oh. So it was  _ that  _ kind of problem. Rolling his eyes a bit, Howard peeled Vince’s arms from his neck and picked up the magazine. 

“Okay?”

“Page 26,” Vince said, then averted his gaze. 

Dutifully Howard flipped to page 26. The Best Dressed List. 

“What did you only get spot number 10 or something? Wait three hours and I’m sure you’ll be straight back to your rightful place at number 4.”

Howard tried very hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He mostly succeeded but of course a little bit always seeped through. Might do the little man some good to be taken down a few pegs. 

With a choked whisper Vince said, “Lower.”

Not quite believing it, Howard skimmed to the bottom half of the page. The Worst Dressed List.

And right there. At spot number 1. Was Vince Noir. 

Oh dear. 

***

“Oh,” Howard said. His voice was very grave. Even he could see how serious this was.

He’d been so sure about the look. Under the picture of the offending outfit there were several snide comments. Saddest peacock at the rave. Glowstick in a gutter. And, the one that stung the most, just the word ridiculous. He’d thought it was finally going to launch him to spot number 3. He’d had it all set up perfectly. Poring over Cheekbone for ideas. Playing at the right clubs. The perfect outfit. It was supposed to be his night. But instead...Sad ridiculous glowstick. 

“I ain’t never been on a worst dressed list before,” Vince cried. “How’m I supposed to face the fans?”

Vince had several fan clubs dedicated to him. The various fan clubs grew as several of the bands he played with got more and more successful. There were three fan clubs dedicated to his hair alone. That most of these clubs only consisted of 1 or 2 people mattered very little to Vince. He loved his fans and they loved him. 

“What if I ain’t got any fans?” Vince dragged his fingers down his face like a scream queen.

“No. Surely they’re not that fickle. And you’ll always have Lucinda and Hans,” Howard said.

Lucinda and Hans were the President and Vice President of the Original Vince Noir Fan Club™ otherwise known as OVNFC (pronounced Oh-vun-fk). They’d been following him since his very first band, a proto-neo-prene-punk band called the Scarfs that he’d started with Leroy, when he was 15. Lucinda and Hans seemed quite unshakeable. They’d stuck with Vince through the Marie Antoinette phase, the French Clown phase, the Heavy Metal phase, and the Bubonic Plague Chic phase. Hans had asked Vince to speak at his funeral when he died.

“They’d never just toss you aside for making the worst dressed list one time.”

Vince’s eyes had somehow been magnified to twice their normal size by his tears. He looked up at Howard imploringly. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Trends may come and go, but fashion is forever. Do you know who said that?”

“Tim Gunn?”

“Noooo.” Howard said, smiling. 

“Alexander McQueen?”

“No.”

Vince pondered for a moment. 

“David Bowie?”

“Not quite.” 

“Gianni Versace?”

“No.”

“Coco Chanel?”

Howard was getting a bit impatient now. “No.”

“The Queen?”

“No.”

“Lee Mack?”

“No.”

“Naboo?”

“...”

“Naboo?!”

“It was you. Vince. You said it. Yesterday.” 

“Well what do I know?” Vince wailed, “I’m the worst dressed person in Camden!”

“You’ll see. They’ll all be at the gig tonight. They’ll shower you in praise as per usual and by tomorrow it’ll all be back to normal.”

The only way Vince would agree to go to that night’s gig was if Howard agreed to come to his nightly fashion show. Which was what he called it when he and Bollo picked out whatever Vince would be wearing that night. 

Vince told Howard that Bollo was a bit of a “yes man”. Howard bit his tongue so he didn’t point out that it must be awfully nice to have a yes man. He was trying to be nice. Vince was genuinely upset by this whole matter. Even more than Howard thought he would be. He thought maybe a couple knocks to the chops would hurt Vince’s pride a bit. Maybe prick his ego a little. Some wailing. A smidge of woe is me. Fake tears. 

He hadn’t expected real tears. So he was being nice. 

Eventually, with a few backhanded compliments from Howard, Vince was ready to go.

***

Vince felt like everyone was staring at him as he and Howard walked to the green room. This was not a novel feeling. Vince assumed he was being stared at basically 24/7. Some might argue that no one was watching him sleep. But he remembered waking up on several occasions to find someone watching him sleep. Also Howard had mentioned the possibility that the flat was bugged because there was no way they weren’t on at least three government watch lists due to their interactions with aliens, their proximity to several murders, and the time they got into an argument in an airplane bathroom and everyone thought they’d joined the mile high club and they were subsequently placed on the no fly list. So Vince was fairly confident in his calculation that he was stared at all the time, but this was one of those rare times when he didn’t revel in it.

It was no secret Vince liked to be looked at. But sometimes the weight of the eyes all over him got too heavy. When his charm seemed cheap and desperate. When his cheeriness seemed fake. When the eyes were judging instead of admiring. This. Was one of those times.

If he let on that he was in the slightest bit bothered they’d scent it like sharks with blood in the water. Someone was always looking to knock him off his perch. He was vulnerable. Spot number 4 was precarious. He hadn’t quite broken into the top three, the so-called Triumvirate of Cool, so he always had a target on his back. 

Vince squared his shoulders, adopted a bored look, and, his finishing move, tossed his hair. 

Once they were inside the green room all of the practiced nonchalance crumbled like soft cheese. He curled up on the ratty couch and refused to move until showtime. Sending Howard out to fetch him flirtinis. 

Vince knew Howard’s patience was wearing thin. As it always did anytime the difference of their popularity levels came into focus. He hoped this was all over soon. Not just because he was miserable. But because his and Howard’s friendship would suffer. And any chance of it ever becoming more would suffer as well. 

***

In Howard’s eyes, the gig was an unmitigated success. They managed to make it halfway through their set before a gorgon mad of childrens’ macaroni pictures attacked them onstage because Howard had bought a bottle of haunted glue several days earlier. Usually they only made it through the first couple songs before they were chased off stage or attacked by some horrible monster. 

Vince would have to wait until the early morning issue of Cheekbone to pass judgment on the gig. That was when he’d find out if he’d appeased the fashion gods. 

The next morning Howard awoke to the sound of Vince screeching into the phone. 

“What you mean the shipment has been stolen? What every issue? Look mate. I need to know what’s going on, it’s been six hours, I kinda got a lot ridin’ on this. Sort of an entire comeback? And what if candy necklaces come back and I miss it? I love candy necklaces!...And how’d they get robbed anyway? I thought all your delivery people were ninjas….a gorilla?”

Howard walked out to where Vince paced in the living room. 

“Alright. Fine. Guess I’ll just stay inside until the next issue comes out. Thanks a lot,” Vince sneered and then hung up. 

“What’s going on?”

“Someone stole the entire print run of Cheekbone! I have no idea what’s in right now. It could be anythin’!” Vince’s voice was getting shrill with panic. “Neo-Haus, Cybernetic Flapper, Boozy Bird, I’m missin’ it! I have to know Howard. That’s the only way I can stay off the...you know.” 

“It’ll be fine little man. We’ll just wait until the next edition comes out. Maybe you should go back to bed, get a few more hours? This is quite early for you.”

“Yeah. Maybe I will. Thanks Howard.” 

***

He was so tired. He hadn’t slept a wink since they’d gotten home from the gig. Vince really wished Art Kraft, the macaroni picture monster, had attacked a bit earlier. Like before the gig started. Then he could have let the heat die down a bit before their next gig. Regroup. He felt like it was too soon, but Howard had said he had to go. So, of course in the end, he went. 

During the gig he’d been singing  _ Electroboy/Girl  _ and noticed a few eye rolls. At first he’d assumed they were directed at Howard, as they usually were, but they weren’t. They were directed at him. And his shapes felt stupid. His voice sounded cartoonish. And his clothes felt ridiculous. 

For the gig he’d chosen drainpipes and over those he had draped a belly dancer’s sash. It acted as a tambourine while he danced. Because he loved the sound of the tambourine, but he hated how he looked like a dick whenever he played it. Many a frontman had tried and none had succeeded in looking cool doing it. No one could. Not even Mick. 

The look was one of his staple gig looks, but he’d changed it up a bit, added a purple leather waistcoat with no shirt underneath. He thought it really made the look come together. Like if Jim Morrison got off with a cotton candy machine. 

He hoped it was enough. 

***

Howard decided drastic times called for drastic measures. He had to find something to cheer Vince up. He knocked on Naboo’s door. Naboo had expressly forbidden Howard from ever knocking on his door, even Vince only had provisional status, but Howard was willing to brave any curses Naboo may have placed on the door. 

“Naboo.” 

No answer. But Howard knew Naboo and Bollo were home, he’d heard them rustling around in Naboo’s room.

“Naboo. It’s important.”

There was more rustling inside. Someone, presumably Bollo, knocked something over and it crashed to the floor.

“Oh well done ya batty crease.” A voice hissed.

“My bad.” Another voice murmured.

“I can hear you in there,” Howard said.

Silence.

Howard rolled his eyes, this was just ridiculous. He barged into the room before either of them could stop him. 

He stared wildly around the room. It was stacked from floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes. The thud had been one of the stacks falling over. The top box had broken open, spilling the contents across the floor. Almost directly at Howard’s feet.

“What’s this then?” Howard asked.

“Keep it down you ballbag!” Naboo exclaimed, well, as close to exclaiming as he got.

“What are you two up to?”

“Just get outta here Howard. Trus’ me. You do not want Vince findin’ out about this.” Naboo said.

“Vince, what does he have to-”

“Harold shut mouth or Bollo do it for him,” Bollo snarled.

Howard did shut his mouth, but only when he finally noticed what the boxes contained. Magazines. 

Howard bent down and picked one of them up. Cheekbone.

“It was you,” Howard said. “You’re the ones who robbed the delivery truck? Why?”

“Just put it away,” Naboo said. “Hide it somewhere before-”

“Alright Naboo?” 

Howard, Naboo, and Bollo all whipped around to face Vince, who had chosen the absolute worst time to come out of his room. 

Then Vince spotted the issue of Cheekbone in Howard’s hands and Howard gave it to him. “No way! How’d you get it Howard? Well skilled.” He shot Howard a grin then started to flip through the magazine.

For a moment Howard was proud that he had managed to make Vince feel better after all, with perhaps a little help from Naboo and Bollo, but then his eyes darted over to their stricken faces. Eyes glued to Vince as he flicked through a few pages. Examining a couple new outfits. Looking a bit confused. Then he sniffed a perfume sample. And he looked even more confused. 

Then. Finally. He reached the page they’d all been dreading. The best and worst dressed list. 

Vince’s scream was later the subject of a few studies, several dissertations and countless unexplained sound youtube compilations, along with the Bloop and the mysterious Russian Numbers Transmission. As far as anyone was aware, it was the only sound that could travel through the vacuum of space, a feat which had been thought impossible until “The Camden Shriek”, as it came to be known. The scream even reached Xooberon, and all the members of the blue man group woke up in a cold sweat, having all been singing _ I Love the Chosen One _ in perfect sync in their dreams as the scream twisted itself into their subconscious. 

At first Howard thought it was because Vince was once again named the worst dressed in Camden. But no, the reason Naboo and Bollo had stolen the entire print run of Cheekbone, the reason Vince screamed so loud none of them could hear themselves or each other for hours and then collapsed into Bollo’s arms, was because at spot # 1 on Cheekbone’s best dressed list was Howard Moon. 

***

Vince sat very quietly on the couch. He hadn’t moved for several hours. He simply stared straight ahead. Not reacting when Howard or Naboo or Bollo walked through his eyeline. 

It wasn’t real. That’s all there was to it. He was having some sort of nightmare and any minute now he would awaken from it. And dear sweet unfashionable Howard would slide him a cup of tea and Vince would say, “you won’t believe the dream I had last night.”

And Howard would grunt disinterestedly.

But then Vince would utter the only words known to man that could make another person’s dreams interesting. “You were in it.” 

Then he’d tell Howard all about his crazy dream he’d had in which he was at the top of the worst dressed list and Howard at the top of the best dressed list. And Howard would scowl and ask “just what was so crazy about that hmm?” but there would be a smile lurking under the scowl and they’d bicker about it all day and then they could get ready for the gig and all would be as it should be. 

Or maybe he had been taken into some sort of mirror world, a proper mirror world, not Mr. Susan’s mirror room. 

Though if he was dreaming it was a horribly realistic dream. Usually in his dreams there were more singing lizards. Everything was the same. But nothing made sense because Howard’s hawaiian shirt was still that horrendous olive color. What had that innocent hawaiian print done to deserve getting paired up with olive green? And why was it suddenly the height of fashion? What did everyone see in it? If this was real, then just what on earth had happened? How had he not seen it coming? 

Vince used to be able to take any trend and boil it down to its essence. He could see what was special about a trend, like the living brooches where you could pay a salamander 50p a day to sit on your lapel, and make it beautiful and all his own. So he convinced a group of butterflies to act as his necklace all day. All he had to do was ask nicely and give them as much nectar as they wanted. It was pretty quiet at the shop so he spent most of the day quietly chatting with the butterflies and feeding them nectar with a coffee straw. He caught Howard watching him quite a lot that day. More than usual. He’d gotten his hopes up that he’d finally caught Howard’s attention. But the next day it was all back to business as usual. 

His instincts had completely abandoned him. He had no idea how to make Howard’s style his own. It was  _ Howard’s.  _

***

Vince finally snapped out of his fugue state and Howard sagged in relief. If it had gone on much longer he had been planning on taking him to the A&E. 

Vince shot to his feet and disappeared into his room in a flash. 

Well. At least he was alright physically and mentally. Maybe not emotionally, but two out of three wasn’t bad. Howard was lucky to scrape up one out of three on any given day. 

For the first time he turned over the idea in his head. Best dressed. He was the best dressed in Camden. Part of him screamed that it must be a joke. An elaborate prank. A trap to embarrass him. But if it was, then they hadn’t let Vince in on the joke. There was no way Vince was faking. 

And there were boxes of magazines that pointed toward it being real. 

Of course he knew that he had a unique and forward thinking whilst also eternally relevant style, but he’d never expected to gain any recognition for it. Not while he was alive anyway. But here he was. Best dressed in Camden. How about that. 

***

“No!” Vince screamed. “I’m not going! We were supposed to have the night off.”

“Well the booker just called.”

“So? Tell them no. Tell them it’s too short notice.”

“It’s the Stunned Clown.”

They had been permanently banned from the Stunned Clown after a mouse planted miniature pipe bombs in their instruments and they exploded onstage. Lot of property damage. It was one of the best venues in town and for two years they’d been trying to get Morty the booker to reconsider the ban.

“Morty’s giving us another shot?”

“Another band cancelled. He needs someone in the support slot. Come on Vince. This is our chance.” 

Vince couldn't go out. He knew what was coming. To end up on the worst dressed list once was embarrassing, but forgivable. You took a gamble, it didn’t work out, do better next time. But he’d ended up on it two nights in a row. That was a message. It said, we’ve had enough of you. See yourself out. If he stayed out of view he could pretend he was still cool. For one more night. 

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“I can’t.”

“Vince. Be reasonable.”

“I won’t do it Howard. There is absolutely no way I am going to this gig.”

But two hours later he was standing in front of the Stunned Clown. Hunched over with his arms crossed. 

Better get it over with. He walked to the front of the line and tried to march past the bouncer, who was wearing corduroys and a hawaiian shirt, but the bouncer stuck his arm out to block him and nearly clotheslined him.

“Oi!” Vince squawked. “We’re the band!”

The bouncer looked Vince and his outfit up and down. “I don’t think so mate.” 

Vince wore a pink hawaiian shirt and black drainpipes. He also wore a monocle and a black leather jacket with blue leather elbow patches. His best attempt at approximating Howard’s look. He thought he’d done a pretty good job. But apparently he’d missed the mark again. He felt sick. 

***

Vince looked on the verge of a full on cockney bitch-fit and so Howard stepped in.

“Yes. Hello. We are the Mighty Boosh? Filling in for the Owl Pellets?”

The bouncers eyes lit up. “Howard Moon? You’re a fuckin’ ledge man!”

Howard was a bit taken aback. He had never gotten this reaction from another living being. Usually he was met with barely disguised disdain. 

“Come on in.” The bouncer removed his arm and Howard stepped into the club, Vince tried to follow but the bouncer stopped him again. 

“I think you gotta stalker Mr. Moon, tryin’ to follow ya in.” The bouncer picked Vince up like he was a naughty cat. 

“I’m the bleedin’ lead singer!” Vince shrieked, kicking at the bouncer, trying to escape. 

“Want me to call the police?”

Howard felt like the earth had shifted beneath his feet. How many times had he been on the other side of this equation? Where some bouncer manhandled him until Vince, oh so magnanimously, said-

“No, no, that's quite alright. He’s with me.” Howard patted the bouncer’s arm. 

The bouncer set Vince down. Vince gave the bouncer the V then followed Howard across the floor of the club. 

Morty the booker walked up to them. He pulled Howard into a hug, his hands drifted down to Howard’s arse and he gave it a squeeze. Howard jumped a bit; chuckled uncomfortably.

“Ha ha, whoa there,” Howard said. 

“You’re doing me a solid here, Moon. And I won’t forget it.”

“Morty!” Vince said, with a grin on his face. 

As Howard remembered Vince and Morty had always gotten along well. But all of Morty’s good cheer disappeared when he looked at Vince. 

“Don’t screw this up Noir.” And with that he left.

***

“Great set. Great fucking set!” Morty called out as he slithered in between the patrons to reach Vince and Howard at the bar. “You’re welcome back anytime.” 

Then he sneered at Vince and left. 

“Nice work little man. We are back on top.”

“My microphone wasn’t on.”

“That was just a temporary mixup.”

“It was the whole set. The sound tech did it on purpose,” Vince said. 

“Oh Vince, I’m sure that’s not true. It was just an accident.”

Vince didn’t think he’d ever been this embarrassed in his entire life. The audience had turned on him. No longer were there just dramatic eye rolls and whispers behind hands. Now they were laughing. And pointing. He’d cut out halfway through the first song. He tried to keep singing but he felt ridiculous. His voice sounded weak and silly without the amplification. Without the cheers of the crowd. So he’d simply stood there. And Howard jumped in and finished the song. Even including a key change they’d never done before that made the song sound even better. With Howard singing.

Howard gestured to Vince to jump on his mic, so they both sang into Howard’s microphone for most of the show. Occasionally he would attempt to go back to his own microphone but it was always dead. Generally he would be thrilled about sharing a microphone with Howard. The sustained proximity would have been intoxicating. Howard was usually so stuffy about stuff like that. He never let Vince drink out of his glass and he said sharing a microphone was unsanitary. But Vince was completely off his game. So he just sang along lamely while Howard had the set of his life. 

The worst part was that there were no monsters, no explosions, no abductions, so they had to play the full set. 

“Can we go please?” 

Howard was not paying attention. A very tall pretty woman, wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches, was playing with the collar of Howard’s hawaiian shirt.

“Howard?” 

Howard motioned to the bartender for two drinks.

“Howard, I don’ want another drink. I want ‘a go home.” 

But Howard didn’t give the drink to Vince. He instead gave it to the tweed lady. 

“Woteva,” Vince murmured to himself. 

He walked out of the Stunned Clown and started walking back toward the flat.

It was starting to sink in that he might not come back from this. Unless he made some serious changes he was going to be stuck on the worst dressed list for the rest of his life. Or worst of all, not be on any list at all. Because that would mean he was forgotten. That no one was watching anymore. Vince’s entire personality imploded when he didn’t have an audience. He knew it was silly and shallow but he needed attention like other people needed air. Or water. He couldn’t be himself by himself. He needed someone to perform for. Someone to sparkle for. Someone to shine for. 

He’d thought that maybe he could shine just for Howard. But Howard never really looked at him. Not the way he wanted him to. So he’d kept trying. Doing more and more to seem beautiful and desirable and cool. It seemed that the more popular he got, the further away Howard moved. 

So he had an audience. And he had fan clubs. And groupies. And all together they almost, almost, equalled one Howard. And now he had neither. 

***

Howard and the beautiful tweed lady, Bernice, were getting on quite well. They seemed to have quite a lot in common. He thought he might be able to put her in the ‘ol wheelbarrow, if you caught his drift. 

Vince had disappeared and Howard hadn’t exactly noticed when he left. He felt bad for a moment, but Bernice liked to lean in close and whisper in his ear and it was quite distracting. 

After a few more drinks Bernice grabbed his hand and led him back toward the green room. “So we can talk in private,” she purred. 

Howard nodded eagerly and allowed himself to be led.

Once they reached the green room Bernice huddled up close to him. Dragging her finger up and down his chest, but then as slick as a magic trick she was holding a business card. 

He took it from her fingers. “What’s this?”

“I work for Uncle Joliet’s Elbow Patches. Marketing.”

Howard was quite familiar with Uncle J’s elbow patches. They were a bit out of his price range for regular wear, but he had put some on his best coat, only for special occasions. 

“Congratulations. They are a fine company,” he said with all possible sincerity. 

She smiled up at him. “Good.” 

Bernice let go of Howard and went back behind the couch and pulled out a briefcase.

“What’s going on?” 

“We’d like you to be the face of our latest line of elbow patches.”

Oh. Howard had thought...stupid. He’d thought she liked him. 

Bernice opened her briefcase. It was a display case for their new elbow patch range. 

“They’re scented,” she said. “Campfire, pipe tobacco, pine mist morning, and MAN.”

Howard managed a faint smile. “They’re very nice.”

“Is that a yes?” 

“Sure. Why not.”

“Great. I’ll have the contract sent over in the next couple days. Bye bye.”

Then she left him standing alone in the green room. 

He returned to the club. A few people approached him. He thought maybe they would want to sit down. Talk. But they just asked for pictures with him. To post on FlockBook. Whatever the hell that was.

***

While Howard was still out partying, Vince had snuck into Howard’s room and stolen some of his clothes. 

He dragged the pile of Howard’s clothes back to his room. To examine them. He went through the clothes one item at a time. Staring at them. The colors. The patterns. The fit. 

He just didn’t understand it. They just screamed Howard. How on earth could he ever make this style his own? 

He heard someone stumbling up the stairs. Then he realized that he actually heard several someones.

There was quite a lot of giggling, mixed with flirty shushing from Howard. 

Part of Vince wanted to stomp out there and yell at them to shut up. Yell at Howard for bringing a bunch of people to their home in the middle of the night. Except he’d pulled the exact same move more times than he could count. Lose track of Howard at the club. Shrug it off. Come back with an entourage. Let them eat all the food. Let them make snidey comments about Howard’s things. Keep Howard up til all hours with their music and other noises.

Vince put on his headphones and tried to block out the noise. He had to figure out what everyone saw in Howard’s clothes. Because the only thing Vince liked about Howard’s clothes was the person in them.

***

Howard was the first to admit that the after party had gotten a bit out of hand. He’d only meant to bring some potentials back to the flat. But someone else had caught wind of the “gathering” and all of the sudden he had a full house. 

People were hovering around him. Asking his opinion on things. Of course most of those things seemed to be clothing brands, but it was nice to be asked. 

If Vince was still awake he was being very quiet. 

The same could not be said for Howard’s guests. 

One would pluck a painting off the wall. “Oi Howard! You do this? It’s well skilled.”

“Um. No. Vince did actually.”

Then the blossoming art critic would frisbee the painting across the room. And walk off. Howard would put the painting back up on the wall and find someone else dancing around with Vince’s dress form. 

“Could you not do that please?” 

Someone threw a jazz record on and Himbo Huxely and the Be-bop Belugas blared out over the expensive sound system Naboo, Bollo, Vince, and himself had pooled together to purchase. The volume all the way up.

Howard yelled over the jazz. “Excuse me! Sorry! But I have a flatmate who’s allergic to jazz. So if you could just turn it down-” 

“Tell ‘im to get out the epi pen,” the jazz lover yelled then went off to snicker and highfive with his friends. 

He remembered a particular instance in which Vince threw an impromptu party. And one of his guests broke into Howard’s room and hooked one of his guitars into the amp and played it at full volume, nearly giving Howard a heart attack as he was jolted awake from a dead sleep. Howard was furious. As angry as he’d ever been. Vince swore up and down that he hadn’t meant for this many people to show up. That he’d only invited a couple. Just to hang out. Listen to some albums. But it got out of hand. Howard couldn’t get the people he did know and like to come to any of his parties, so he found it unfathomable that people you don’t know might come along just by accident. The little titbox had probably handed out fliers and now that he was in trouble he was backpedaling. The oldest trick in the Noir playbook. But now Howard was starting to understand how such a thing could happen. 

If Howard hadn’t turned at the right moment he might have completely missed the couple sneaking into Vince’s room. 

Howard rushed forward to pull them back out before they could wake Vince up. But when he opened the door he saw Vince was already awake. There were piles of Howard’s clothes on the floor. Vince stood in the middle of them.

“Get outta my room!” Vince screamed. He scooped up Howard’s clothes and tried to hide them under his bed. 

The couple who had snuck in burst into laughter. 

***

Vince hated how red his face got when he was embarrassed. It looked like mercury climbing up a cartoon thermometer. 

He kept shoving Howard’s clothes under his bed even though it was absolutely pointless because Howard had already seen. He just wanted to avoid having to look at Howard for as long as possible. 

He tossed a glance over his shoulder at the couple of twats still giggling in the corner. “Could you get out my room please?” He didn’t turn around to see if this request was complied with. But he did hear the door close. 

Howard was still in the room. He could tell. 

Vince took several deep breaths and turned around. He twisted his fingers into his hair, hiding behind his fringe a bit. 

“Can you go as well?”

“Why do you have my clothes?” Howard’s voice was very gentle and for some reason that made Vince furious. 

“Why you think?!” 

***

Vince’s face was bright red. He scurried around the room. Picking up Howard’s clothes. Throwing them at Howard. 

“Here! Take em all back!” 

“Vince.”

Vince kept throwing the clothes. “Dunno what I was thinking. Must be gettin’ desperate.”

A pair of trousers smacked Howard in the face, enveloping him in corduroy. It took him several seconds to wrestle them off. 

“Vince!” 

Then a pair of his old trainers flew at his head. He ducked and narrowly avoided them.

“Stop it!” He yelled. 

Howard did not yell. Not like this. He screamed. He lamented. He wailed. And he projected theatrically. But not like this, with full bass in his chest. Not angry. Not at Vince. But he’d had a long night. And he’d tried to be supportive. But he was out of patience. Vince just couldn’t stand the idea of Howard being in the spotlight for once. 

“Why are you doing this to me?!” Vince yelled right back. 

“I’m not doing anything to you!” Howard yelled. “At least not anything you haven’t done to me a thousand times.”

“I have not!”

“What, I-are you joking?” Howard said, his forehead creased in incredulity. “About once a week you ditch me to hang out with your little groupies all night. Your fans.”

“I don’t ditch you. You ditch me. After our gigs you always leave without saying goodbye. You never want to hang out. I always ask you to come and you never do!” 

That was preposterous. Vince only asked him to come because he felt like he had to. As an afterthought. Howard wasn’t cool enough for all of Vince’s other mates. The ask was perfunctory at best and at worst was probably part of some plot to humiliate him for his own entertainment. There was no way Vince actually wanted him to go. 

“You let your mates make fun of me. Always have.”

“It’d be a lot worse if I didn’t stop them,” Vince said.

***

Vince internally cringed. That sounded a lot harsher than he’d meant it to. 

“Yeah thanks. But don’t do me any favors. Not that you can anymore,” Howard said.

Vince felt tears sting his eyes at that. Now even Howard was making fun of him. He viciously wiped them from his eyes before they could gather and fall. “Get outta my room,” he said.

“Gladly,” Howard sneered. He slammed the door on his way out. 

Vince crawled into his bed and curled into a little ball. 

It was all falling apart.

***

Well that went very poorly.

Howard almost went back in. To apologize. But what was he apologizing for? He hadn’t broken into Vince’s room. He’d tried to stop them. No what Vince wanted him to apologize for was being number 1 on the best dressed list. For finally having the spotlight. For being the popular one for once. Well he wouldn’t do it. He’d suffered in Vince’s shadow for years. Howard held no illusions that this popularity would last, but it wouldn’t kill Vince to be the outsider for a while. See how the other half lived. 

It was getting quite late but the party showed no sign of slowing down. Howard had no idea how to make people leave without seeming like a complete arsehole. Usually he just stormed out of his bedroom and told them all to clear out or he’d come at them like a northern bullet. But he couldn’t very well do that to his own guests could he? 

He waved his hands, trying to get everyone’s attention. But they kept coming up to him. Asking him questions. Taking pictures of him and shoving drinks and hats and business cards and demo tapes into his hands. Everyone was looking at him. But no one was listening to him. 

***

Vince covered his head with his pillow. Trying to block out the noise. Trying to go to sleep. But the party was still going strong. 

Amongst the party noise he could also hear Howard trying to politely shuffle everyone toward the door. But he was not succeeding. They were walking all over him. And Howard’s voice was going a bit shrill. 

Vince knew from years and years of experience that Howard had a switch. He was alright being around other people for a time. If he was having a good time it might even be a long time. But there was always a point where it stopped being a good time. When he needed to be on his own. Or things were going to get ugly. And all of Howard’s new mates were about to see it turn ugly. 

Vince stood up. He walked to the door. Paused for a moment to collect himself. Then whipped open the door.

“Clear out!” He screamed. “Don’t gotta go ‘ome but you can’t stay ‘ere!”

When the crowd seemed disinclined to leave, Vince clapped his hands briskly. “Come on. Sod off. I got shit ta do tomorrow. Get out.”

There was a lot of collective bellyaching and each and every individual guest took the time to say goodbye to Howard and shoot one last reproachful look at Vince before departing. Finally the flat was clear.

***

“Thanks,” Howard said. “Didn’t think they’d ever leave.”

“Woteva,” Vince said. “I was just sick of the jazz. It was makin’ my neck go big.” 

Then he disappeared back into his room.

A few days later, Howard stood in front of his closet. He just wasn’t sure if he should wear the classic orange hawaiian shirt, the fun and funky purple dashiki shirt, or the sophisticated olive rollneck. 

He was resolutely ignoring his phone which had not stopped beeping and vibrating and ringing since he’d got on the list. He dreaded even looking at it. So many notifications. So many invitations. So many people. 

Then he heard the landline ring.

“Vince! Could you grab that please? I’m in the middle of something.” He had the clothes on hangers and was holding them in front of himself while he stood in front of the mirror.

The phone kept ringing. 

“Vince!” 

“Why? It ain’t gonna be for me.”

Vince had been in a strop for days, but he was also not wrong. Every call they’d gotten since Howard’s “party” had been for Howard. 

So he tossed the shirts onto the bed and walked out to the kitchen. He picked up the phone.

“Yes, hello?”

“Howard Moon. As I live and breathe.” A very familiar, disturbingly bubbly, vice said. 

“Yes?”

“It’s Lucinda!”

“Aaaand Hans,” Hans broke in as if he was a sitcom voice introducing a very special guest. 

“I’m actually quite glad you’ve called,” Howard said. “Vince has been having a bit of a rough go. This will really raise his spirits.” 

Howard thought that a call from Vince’s number 1 fans might put him in a good enough mood that with a few skillfully deployed stickers and sweets he might be back in Vince’s good graces by nightfall.

“Actually Howard. We wanted to speak with you,” Lucinda said. 

“Me? Why?”

“Well, we here at OHMFC™ -” Hans began.

“I’m sorry at what?” Howard could swear that Hans had said “ohm-fuck trademark” but he couldn’t have possibly said “ohm-fuck trademark” because “ohm-fuck trademark” wasn’t anything, “ohm-fuck trademark” was nonsense. One would think the presence of the word trademark would make things less confusing, but Howard was more confused than ever. 

“Ohm-fuck trademark” Hans said. 

“Yes. What is that?” Howard said. More confused than ever.

“Ohm-fuck. O. H. M. F. C. Original Howard Moon Fan Club™,” Hans said. 

“Ah.” 

These two certainly did like to get in on the ground floor. 

“We here at OHMFC™ would like to invite you to play tonight at the Groove Solution.”

“The-you want me to play at the-” 

The Groove Solution was the best jazz fusion venue in the city. All the greats had played there. Cloudy Jacobs. Still Life Jefferson and the Fruit Bowl Five. The Coach. It was where Mark King first heard someone slap a bass. In all his days, in all his wildest dreams, Howard had never dared to think that he would play at the Groove Solution. 

“But how? Why?”

“The people want to get to know Howard Moon, Jazz Maverick,” Lucinda said. “We have some funds set aside from our last bake sale and so we booked the venue. Praying you’d say yes.” 

As Howard recalled, the money from the last bake sale had been earmarked to fulfill their dream of a Vince Noir celebrity cruise. They’d almost saved up enough to buy a small barge, then they would work their way up. 

“We can’t do it,” Howard said.

“We?” Lucinda asked.

“Vince can’t go in there. The moment he walked through the door, his throat would close up tight as a pillbug’s pillbox.”

“Well, we didn’t actually want the band,” Hans said. 

“There’s only two of us.” 

“We thought...perhaps you could do a solo performance,” Lucinda said.

***

Vince had spent the last three days studying Cheekbone like it was a sacred text. He thought he’d figured out the Moon Look. Campy but intellectual. Masculine. Warm earth tones. But with bizarre pops of color. 

If he was going to make his comeback on the social scene the first thing he was going to have to do was butch it up a bit. Androgyny was out. Masculinity was in. And that meant...cutting his hair. 

He’d been sitting in front of his vanity staring at his scissors for hours. He’d picked them up once but then the phone rang and he lost his nerve again. He could hear Howard murmuring into the phone.

He wondered which of his ex mates was calling Howard now. Inviting him to some party or poetry slam or wine tasting. Howard would invite him to go but even Vince could tell he was just doing it to be nice and he couldn’t bear the sniggering, the hushed comments of “what is he wearing?”, the rolled eyes whenever he opened his mouth. So Howard had gone out every night that week. And Vince had stayed home. 

But Vince could go out again, could get his life back, if he just did what needed to be done. He’d done plenty of stuff for fashion. For a while leeches had been really popular and he’d done that no problem. He had to get his ears pierced every few years as it fell in and out of fashion because the gaps in between were so far apart that the holes always closed back up. He’d been completely willing to get in on the footbinding trend until Howard put a stop to it.

Why was it so hard to just cut his hair? It was just hair. It would grow back. He could make it look cool. If he just made a bit of an effort he could get back to having fun. 

He lifted the scissors up again and grabbed a hank of his hair. He slowly closed the blades, about to snip away the first lock, when he stopped. He dropped the scissors back on the vanity. 

Vince couldn’t do that to his hair. His hair was his favorite feature. Yeah, he changed his hair all the time, but it was always because it was something he wanted to do. He didn’t just chase the trends with his hair. He leaned toward cuts that were both old fashioned and futuristic, as befitted a great frontman. His hair was the one thing he hadn’t sacrificed just to stay trendy.

There was a time where he didn’t give a toss about trends at all. When he just wore whatever he wanted. The more colorful and fun and wild the better. But then there were magazine covers and gigs and fans, and he found he had to maintain a certain image. And all that effort had been for nothing because they’d tossed him aside anyway. 

He couldn’t cut his hair. Just couldn’t do it. But if he wasn’t going to do that, he was going to have to find some other way to make himself more masculine. 

***

It had been a long time since Howard had appeared onstage without Vince. He’d played at the Blue Aubergine for a time, but that felt a lifetime ago. Vince had been in a lot of bands before he and Howard finally joined up and he still got offers, but he turned them down. Howard couldn’t go solo. It would be a musical betrayal. Howard couldn’t be another person who deserted Vince. It would devastate him. Probably. 

“I’m sorry. But I’m not going to play without Vince.”

“Hm,” Lucinda said. 

“Okay, glad it’s settled,” Howard said.

“Yeah. It’s just interesting,” Lucinda said.

“What’s interesting?”

“How loyal you are to him. I mean...you should hear the things he says about you at our meetings. When he deigns to show up.”

“Talks about me?” Howard asked. Why was he surprised? 

“All the time,” Luncinda said. 

Howard sucked his teeth. Scrunched up his nose. His standard “I’m not bothered” move. “Tonight. What time?”

***

Vince waited until he heard Howard leave for the night. Then he came out of his room. He crept down the hall and knocked on Naboo’s door. “Naboo? Naboolio?”

After stealing the printrun of Cheekbone, Naboo and Bollo had been keeping a very low profile. They’d mentioned the possibility of staying either in Saboo’s stone tower or Tony Harrison’s condo until the heat died down. When Vince asked if he could go with, they said they would check. But it looked like they’d left without him. Which actually served his purposes perfectly. 

He snuck into Naboo’s room. Avoiding the various boobytraps he and Howard had managed to trick Bollo into revealing over the years. Finally he stood in front of Naboo’s potion cabinet. 

Surely there was some sort of lotion or potion that would make him look a bit more butch. Just give him a bit more heft. Fill him out a bit. Put some serious hair on his chest. Make him taller. Something. 

***

Howard stood out front at the Groove Solution. His name was on the marquee. Howard Moon. On the marquee. At the Groove Solution. The marquee. At the Groove Solution. Howard Moon. Marquee. Groove Solution. 

Generally when he got stuck in a loop like that, Vince was there to slap and snap him out of it. But he wasn’t there so eventually Howard tired himself out and went inside. Though his mind was still screaming GROOVE SOLUTION over and over even as he greeted Lucinda and Hans. 

Then they showed him back to the green room. Howard thought he might faint. This was the room where Egg Salad Jones and Ham Sandwich Parker came up with the idea for their duet album,  _ The Picnic.  _ He was in jazz fusion heaven. 

***

Vince wasn’t feeling great. He’d gone through Naboo’s entire room, snatching up any spell or potion that would make him look more like...well...Howard. Then he dragged his ill-gotten gains back to his room. Then his nerve failed him. He didn’t want to look like Howard. He liked the way Howard looked, he  _ really  _ liked the way Howard looked, but he didn’t want to look like Howard. 

For a moment he considered whether it was worth it. To try and be trendy. If it actually made him happy or if he’d just been trying to impress Howard and it had gotten out of hand. Maybe he could just dress however he wanted. As fun and outlandish as he liked. Sod em. They could put him on the worst dressed list if they wanted to. He’d be proud of it. Meant he was trying something. Daring to be different. The way Howard did. And at the moment that sounded quite appealing to Vince. He considered all this for a moment. But only for a moment. Because then, a ninja delivered a magazine. 

Vince had changed his Cheekbone subscription. Now he got the extra edition as well, which was released every hour. The ninja scaled the building and knocked on the window of Vince’s room. Vince opened the window and took the magazine.

“Cheers,” he said. 

Vince sat down cross legged on the floor. Surrounded by all his clothes and all the potions from Naboo. He flipped open the magazine. Bracing himself to once again feature on the worst dressed list. Perhaps eager to see it. Thinking it would send him on his way to better things. 

Finally he reached page 26. His eyes skimmed down both lists. Searching for Vince Noir. But his name was nowhere to be found. 

Ignored. Forgotten. Disowned.

Vince methodically drank every potion he’d stolen from Naboo’s room.

***

Howard started out with a few riffs. Just to get everyone warmed up. Then he played a few of his original pieces that he couldn’t even show to Vince otherwise he’d go into anaphylactic shock. He knew he was taking a risk. Vince wasn’t the only one who had never heard these songs. No one had. At first people seemed quite keen. Grooving along with that sweet jazz train, but as the night progressed he found that people were barely paying attention while he was playing, but that the moment the song ended they would cheer as if he’d just done their very favorite song. Then once he started playing again they would return to their drinks and conversations. 

He ended with a 10 minute slap bass instrumental. Real experimental. When he finished they blew the roof off. Howard grinned, forgetting that moments ago they had barely been listening. They loved him. They  _ really  _ loved him. 

Howard bellied up to the bar. A guy wearing a hawaiian shirt, a sweatervest, and a tweed jacket sidled up to him.

“Great set mate! Mind melting stuff,” the triple layer fan said.

Howard smiled. “Thanks. I’d actually never played those for an audience before so-”

“That's super interesting. Can we take a picture?”

“Hm? Oh. Right.”

Triple Layer pulled out a polaroid camera. 

“Tell me whe-”

Triple Layer snapped the picture. Howard blinked in surprise. Then Triple Layer yanked the photo from the camera. He shook it several times. He was smiling and Howard looked like a simpleton. 

“Cheers mate, I’ll tag ya on Flockbook,” Triple Layer said, then walked away. A carrier pigeon landed on his shoulder. He gave the pigeon the photograph and it flew off. 

Flockbook. Howard’s social media game was...nonexistent. He ran a blog that he updated semiannually. As far as he knew some gimmer in Montana and Vince were the only people who read it. That was the extent of his social media presence. But one of his new mates, once things settled down he would figure out all their names, had convinced him he absolutely needed to get a Flockbook. A social media site where carrier pigeons carried your photographs and posts around to your friends for their approval. He still didn’t understand it. 

Howard motioned for the bartender, but before he could order, a young man smoking a pipe and wearing a monocle appeared at his side. 

“You haven’t accepted my friend request on Stingray yet Howard.”

Stingray was a social media app where if you didn’t like or comment on your friends post within two days your phone delivered a sharp shock, as Howard had discovered the hard way. 

Howard did not remember this person at all. “Sorry. I’ll get right on that.” Howard pulled out his phone. He had hundreds of notifications. “If you could-terribly sorry-if you could tell me your name?” Howard squinted at his mystery mate apologetically. 

His mystery mate shook his head. “Whateva. I thought we made a connection. You’ve changed mate. You used to be real. You’ve forgotten where you come from.”

“Leeds?”

“The streets. But I guess you’re just up in your ivory tower now. Thought you were different.”

“I am different.”

His mystery mate walked away. Howard yelled after him.

“Hey, I am different!” Howard took a few steps after him.

“I’d just leave ‘im be,” a voice said from beside him. 

Howard turned around to find a tall, handsome, cowboy looking type with salt and pepper hair sitting on the stool beside him. Which was more rare to find in a jazz fusion club in Dalston than one might think. 

“Pardon me?” Howard asked. 

“I’d let that ol’ boy go,” the Cowboy said again. He was American and spoke with a lilting drawl. He had intense blue eyes and oddly enough looked a bit like Joey Moose. “Howard, right? I wouldn’t worry about him, Howard. He ain’t actually yer friend. Just wants to leach offa ya. Did the same thing to Vince.”

“How do you know Vince? If you’ll forgive me. It doesn’t seem like you two would run in the same circles.”

“We go back a ways. I cover music for Cheekbone Magazine. When you publish every few hours you gotta go to a lot of obscure shows. Gotta fill the pages somehow. I think I’ve written up almost every band he’s been in. Sweet kid.”

“He can be,” Howard said. And it was the truth. 

The Cowboy leaned back and propped his elbows on the bar. Howard had never seen someone so at home with himself. He gave Howard an appraising look. 

“I gotta be honest,” the Cowboy said, “I thought you were gonna be a gigantic asshole. Or maybe I was just sorta hopin’ you was.” 

“What? Why?”

“Well, Vince never shuts up about ya.”

Howard soured. “That right.” 

Here we go. Apparently Vince had been talking trash all over town. He wondered what Vince had told this fellow. 

“He seems to think the sun rises and sets in your ass,” the Cowboy said.

This took Howard aback. That couldn’t be right. Lucinda had said-

“Oh yeah.” The Cowboy adopted a surprisingly good Vince voice, “Howard came up with this genius song yesterday. Did you know Howard was the fastest guitar player in Leeds? That really stupid thing you just said reminds me of something hilarious Howard said the other day.”

That didn’t make any sense. Vince took any opportunity to mock him. 

The Cowboy switched back to his normal voice. “Anytime I’d try and interview him all he’d wanna talk about was his best mate Howard. Now he won’t do any interviews about the band at all unless we interview both of ya, and editorial wadn’t gonna go for that. Still won’t now I guess. Since he’s on their shit list.”

“He’d talk me up? To you?”

“Yeah, so I hoped you was either a massive asshole or shit boring. ”

“Why?”

“Jealous I guess. I don’t got nobody who’d talk about me like that,” the Cowboy said. He paid his bill and stood up. He handed Howard is card. “Good show tonight Howard. You ever wanna do another one, give me a shout. I know the owner.” With that the Cowboy clanked his bottle to Howard’s bottle and disappeared back into the crowd. 

Howard searched for Lucinda. He needed to speak with her. Finally he found her sitting in a back corner booth, holding court with some of Vince’s other ex-sycophants. 

“Lucinda. Might I have a word?” 

All of the sycophants gasped and then whispered rapidly amongst themselves. 

“Of course Howard.” Lucinda smiled and climbed out of the booth. 

Howard attempted to lead her away to a more isolated place so that he could be heard over the music, but he kept getting accosted by fans. How did Vince get anything done with people hanging off him all the time? 

Finally he found a quiet spot. “What did Vince say about me at your meetings?” Howard asked. 

Lucinda blanched. “Uh.”

“You said I should hear what Vince said about me at your meetings. What exactly did he say?”

Lucinda avoided his gaze. And that said it all.

Howard shook his head, managing just barely to contain his simmering rage. He turned and walked out of the Groove Solution. He had to talk to Vince. 

Howard tried to figure out what he was going to tell Vince as he drove the van back to the flat. How did one apologize when the other party didn’t even know they’d been injured yet? 

He climbed up the stairs to the flat and opened the door. All of the lights were off.

“Vince? Naboo? Bollo?”

He heard someone run down the hallway. 

“Vince?”

He walked forward and almost fell on top of an overturned chair. He stumbled backward and reached backwards blindly for the light switch. The lights came on and the flat was a wreck. The furniture looked like it had been thrown around. The sink was running. And, most strange of all, there was hair and shaving cream everywhere. 

Howard heard what sounded like bare feet slapping the hardwood floor. He whipped around to face the hallway but was too late to see anything except the door to Vince’s room slam shut. 

“Vince!”

Howard rushed over to Vince’s door. He knocked on it rapidly. “Little man? I need to talk to you. Can I come in?” 

There was no answer, but Howard heard a very heavy thump as someone ran into something. Though it sounded too large to be Vince. 

“Bollo. Are you in Vince’s room?”

There was a loud crash and some hushed swearing. It was definitely Vince in there, no one else swore quite so whimsically. 

“Right. I’m coming in.” Howard pushed the door open. 

Vince’s room was in an even bigger shambles than the rest of the flat. Some of his clothes were ripped to shreds. There was broken glass everywhere. And no Vince.

“Where are you?” Howard murmured more to himself than to Vince. He scanned the room. The door to Vince’s closet was closed. It was never closed. Vince always left it open for easy access. 

Howard walked to the door.

“Vince?”

“Don’t come in,” Vince said, except his voice seemed deeper than normal. He also sounded like he’d been crying.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’ll talk to ya later,” Vince was trying far too hard to sound normal, always a bad sign.

“Can I please come in?”

“No.”

“I really think I should,” Howard said.

***

He couldn’t let Howard see him like this. He just couldn’t. 

***

Howard leaned his head on the door. “Come on little man. Come on. Come on,” his voice soft, entreating. 

He had to go in there. His best mate. His favorite person on earth (which he needed to remind himself of a bit more often) was in pain. He shouldn’t be outside the door. He should be in with Vince. He should be sitting next to Vince. Suffering from whatever ailment Vince was. There was a time where they did everything together. If Howard was in trouble, Vince asked “what are we gonna do?”, when Vince was upset Howard said “we’ll sort it.” Two halves of a complete person. But he was outside the door. He didn’t want to be outside the door anymore. 

“Please.”

There was some rustling. He heard the sound of clothes hangers being pulled across the racks. 

Finally, Vince said “Ok.” 

Howard pushed the door to the closet open. The light was off. He pulled the cord for the naked bulb above their heads and the little room filled with light. He couldn’t see Vince’s face. Just his legs sticking out from under a solid wall of hanging clothes. 

“Why are you hiding?” Howard hadn’t actually known he could be this gentle. And he found that he liked it. He sat down across from Vince so his legs laid beside Vince’s. Almost touching. 

“I’m hideous,” Vince said. 

“That’s not true. You’re-” He’d been about to say beautiful, but he caught himself just in time. “Very striking.” 

Howard almost reached out to pat Vince’s leg, but that seemed a bit intimate. His legs were (barely) glad in a pair of ripped drainpipes. That almost seemed to have burst at the seams. And his legs seemed swollen...and hairy. 

“I really messed up this time,” Vince said.

There was something wrong with his voice. He’d been crying but there was more than that. 

“Whatever it is, we’ll fix it. You and me all the way, right?”

Vince’s legs disappeared behind the wall of clothes as he drew his knees to his chest. 

Howard leaned forward and firmly grasped a few of the hangers blocking Vince’s face. “Time for me to move these.” He slid the hangers out of the way. 

He’d thought he’d braced himself for anything. Because he knew he could not fuck this up. It was too important. He’d been ready for a perm or a shaved head. He’d been ready for a face tattoo or a nose job. But he was not ready for this. 

Two bright blue eyes stood out of a stack of hair. Vince’s entire face was covered in hair. His hair grew down past his shoulders. And his shoulders were huge. Much broader than they’d been a few hours ago. Over all Vince seemed quite a bit larger. In point of fact Vince looked a lot like a sasquatch. 

Howard flinched. “Whoa there!”

***

Vince buried his face in his hands. “I’m a monster!”

Howard rested his hand on Vince’s huge shoulder. “Hey hey hey, listen little...man. It’s not as bad as all that. Just a bit surprised. What happened?”

“You’re going to think it’s stupid!” If Vince had been his normal size it would have been a wail but it came out as more of a roar. 

“No. I won’t. I promise,” Howard said.

And Vince wanted to believe him. Badly. But Howard would never understand. Because Vince would never be able to explain it properly and so it would seem silly and shallow. And that made him  _ feel _ silly and shallow. 

“Come on, Vince, at least give me a chance,” Howard said.

When had Howard gotten so good at this? He was being all...mature. Popularity suited him. He seemed more confident. More at ease with himself.

“I drank a bunch of potions I stole from Naboo to look cooler,” Vince said. 

Howard sighed. “Oh Vince.”

Vince shot to his feet, bumping his head on the ceiling. “See? This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

Howard didn’t seem concerned even though he was occupying a small closet with an angry woodland cryptid. “I just don’t understand it Vince. I don’t understand why you care what all those idiots think.” 

“I don’t care what they think. I care what you think!” Vince screamed. Then he clapped his giant hands over his mouth. He tried to leave the closet but Howard stood up and held him back. 

Vince tried to bull past him. 

***

“Hold on. Just, wait! What d’you mean!”

“Oh my God Howard. I can’t do this when I look like this!” Vince gestured to his hair covered face. 

“Do what?” Howard said, honestly baffled. 

“Tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“That, like, I think I’m in love with you,” Vince said. 

Howard’s arms dropped to his sides. And Vince shoved past him and left the room.

Vince. Loved him. Howard tried to get his mind to wrap around this idea. But he found the idea did not fit in the space yet. He had a lot of mental furniture to rearrange first. Things that he’d had arranged a certain way for a long time. Like the idea that Vince only invited him places because he felt like he had to. When maybe Vince had legitimately wanted to spend time with him. The idea that Vince considered himself to be far above Howard. When he actually looked up to Howard. That Vince mocked him behind his back, when actually Vince seemingly couldn’t stop gushing about him to everyone he knew. 

And of course there were other pieces that needed to be shifted around. Or thrown out. He’d thought he would enjoy having fans. Having people fall all over themselves to be his friend. Hang on every word he said. Be invited to all the parties. But it was exhausting. The constant obligation. The constant infringement. The constant...contact. Of all kinds. People were always touching him and texting him and never leaving him alone. Everyone with an ulterior motive. No one just wanted to talk. They all wanted a shoutout or an endorsement. Because, if the special people liked you then it meant you were special too. Howard couldn’t take living pointed outward for much longer. He was no longer jealous of the attention Vince got. He just wanted to go back to doing his own thing.

And he wanted Vince by his side. Because...he loved Vince too. 

***

Vince locked himself in the toilet. He stared at himself in the mirror. He was grotesque. Now Howard would never look at him. It was bad enough when Howard seemed to still see him as the annoying kid that always followed him around. He’d worked so hard to shed that image. To be seen as someone Howard could love. Well, he’d shed the image alright. And replaced it with something much much worse. 

Though he couldn’t blame everything on his desire to impress Howard. The simple truth was that he felt most alive when he was performing. Didn’t matter if he was onstage or on the street. He felt most alive when others were looking at him. That’s why he’d done it. His fans loved him and he loved his fans. And he’d do almost anything to hold onto them. Had done anything to hold onto them. But it would matter very little. And he was very tired. He didn’t want to chase them anymore. 

“Vince. Let me in.”

“I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one night. Don’t you?”

“Well maybe it’s time for  _ me  _ to embarrass  _ myself, _ ” Howard said. 

Vince cracked the door. Howard pressed his eye to the crack. 

“You sort of ran off, before I could respond,” Howard said. 

Vince hadn’t felt like standing there watching while Howard came up with a way to let him down easy. 

“I love you too,” Howard said.

For a moment, Vince almost believed him. But he was just being nice.

“No you don’t,” Vince said.

“Excuse me sir, yes I do.” Howard pushed on the door.

“You just said it because I said it.” 

“No. I love you,” Howard insisted. “Can I come in please? This would be a lot more effective if I could see you.”

Vince stepped back and let Howard push the door open. Howard stepped into the room.

***

“There. Now I can do this properly.” Howard took Vince’s gigantic hairy hands in his own hands. “Vince. You drive me crazy. In every sense of the word. You bug the everloving piss out of me on a daily basis. But I find myself thinking about you constantly. And when you wear that red vinyl number it drives me to madness. Every time you wear it, my entire day is shot. Because you’re beautiful and sexy. And. You’re my best mate. My favorite person. And I’d quite like to kiss you.” 

Howard could almost make out a smile under all the hair. “I’d like that. But can it wait until I don’t look like the family dog?”

“Mm. Let’s expedite the process,” Howard said. He found now that there was the actual possibility of kissing Vince he could not wait another moment. 

Howard held up clippers and a safety razor. 

Vince sat on the edge of the tub while Howard went to work clearing his face of hair. But as soon as Howard went over a patch of Vince’s face with the clippers the hair grew back immediately. They tried for a while longer, but it couldn’t be helped. The hair was there to stay. 

They gave up for the moment. Vince commented that his clothes were starting to cut off his circulation. The collar of his t-shirt strained around his arms and his bulging neck. Howard went into his room and brought out some clothes he thought might fit Vince. 

Once Vince had changed they settled on the couch. Vince curled around Howard, the way he always did when they sat on the couch, but because of his size he nearly engulfed Howard. His legs were so heavy across Howard’s lap he thought he might have a hernia. But he wouldn’t have moved Vince for anything. No sir. 

Vince played with the collar of Howard’s shirt. “What if it never goes away?” 

“It will,” Howard assured him.

“Yeah. But what if it doesn’t?”

“Well. I’ll always be your mate,” Howard said, his voice a bit strained from the weight resting on his lap. 

Vince rested his head on Howard’s shoulder. A bit of his hair got stuck to Howard’s tongue. Howard tried to very subtly spit the hair out of his mouth. With limited success. 

Eventually they fell asleep curled together on the couch. In the morning, Vince still looked like Cousin Its totty sister. And this nearly sent Vince into a panic. 

Howard told Vince he’d make a call to Naboo. See what they could do. 

Howard stepped into his bedroom to make the call, dragging the landline with him, leaving his much hated cellphone on the coffee table. 

After a couple calls, Naboo finally answered. “What you want?”

“Heyyy Naboolio. Bit of a situation here.”

“What’d you do.”

“Nothing.”

“What did Vince do.”

Howard was trying to work out the best way to explain what had happened but he kept getting distracted by the argument happening in the background wherever Naboo was. 

“Why are you here Tony?” A strident voice demanded. “It’s clear that they chose to stay with me in the tower, because they couldn’t stand to be in your presence. So why are you foisting yourself on all of us?” 

“This is an outrage!” A nasal voice whined. “Every time I’ve ‘ad you over to the condo I’ve been the paragon of hospitality. I come over to be neighborly and I’m insulted. If this is how you treat your guests Saboo-”

“You’re not my guest. You are an interloper.” 

“Could you two be quiet for two seconds?” Naboo said, with his mouth away from the phone. Then he came back to Howard. “What happened?” 

Howard quickly explained the situation and Naboo said the potions would wear off in a few more hours. 

“Cheers Naboo,” Howard said.

“Stay out my stuff,” Naboo said and hung up. 

***

Howard’s phone kept dinging. And he was about to get quite a few shocks on Stingray if he didn’t get a wriggle on. Well. Maybe Vince could help a bit. 

He unlocked Howard’s phone and swiftly posted a few good pictures of Howard. Then he wrote a few witty lines for a status update. Then he dug through his old polaroids of Howard and found one where he was looking particularly cool and jazzy fresh. He went over to the window, opened it, and stuck his fingers in his mouth to let out a loud whistle. A FlockBook pigeon landed on the window sill. Vince handed the pigeon the photo. 

“Take this round yeah?”

The pigeon agreed.

“Also. 50p to anybody who shits on Lance Dior, still our standing arrangement?” 

Again the pigeon agreed. 

“That’s a good boy. Fly on.”

Vince took the liberty of accepting and denying Howard’s various friend requests. Accepting invitations to various parties. Chatting with the right people. Telling the rest to get lost. 

Howard came out of the bedroom. “Alright Vince. It should clear up in a couple of hours and-” he stopped short. “What are you doing with my phone?”

“It was just beepin’ and ringin’ I had ta do something.” Vince handed the phone back to Howard. There were only two notifications. 

Howard threw his arms around Vince. “Bless you. I was not ready for the digital revolution. There’s just so much to keep track of. I’d get rid of it all, I mean I don’t really want the mates. But-”

“But what?” Vince asked.

“But there are some people I want to stay in contact with. Music people.”

***

Howard realized he still hadn’t told Vince about the Groove Solution. 

“I played a gig without you,” he confessed. 

Vince blinked. “When?”

“Last night. They invited me to play at the Groove Solution. And I sort of got tricked. But that’s no excuse. I’m so sorry.”

“That jazz place? The one you’re always talking about?” 

“Yes.”

“But that’s great!” Vince said.

“It is?”

“Yeah. Course it is. You always dreamed of playing there. I’m not gonna get mad over that.”

“But...the musical betrayal.”

“If you’d played there with Lance Dior, we’d be having words. But you couldn’t turn that down. Are you going to play there again? I could take some of my allergy meds and come watch!”

Howard thought back to the Cowboy, he’d said if he wanted to play again to give him a shout. “You know. I think I might.” 

They sat in companionable silence for a moment. 

“Hey Vince?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you yet?”

“Oh go on then.” 

*** 

It wasn’t the first kiss either of them expected. Howard kept getting Vince’s hair stuck in his mouth. And the couch broke when Vince shifted around. But it was perfect all the same. 

And later when the potions finally wore off they had a second first kiss that was even more perfect. 

Over the next few weeks Vince acted as Howard’s social media manager. He took care of posting pictures and statuses. He made sure that Howard got back to everyone actually worth getting back to. And he paid a pigeon to lose all of Harold Boom’s photos, because he was trying to take Howard’s crown as best dressed. 

Vince had expected to enjoy dating Howard. He had not expected to enjoy his newfound obscurity. But he found that he did. It freed him up. He made all the clothes he’d been thinking about but hadn’t had the nerve to try. He wasn’t on any list in Cheekbone, though he was still regularly featured in the music column. As was Howard. 

When people spoke with him it wasn’t because they wanted something from him. Because he couldn’t do anything for them. So he knew if someone bothered to speak with him they were interested in what he had to say. Quite a pleasant change. 

Eventually the Moon era passed. As all do. And Howard was no longer stylish. And he was no longer popular. But the newfound confidence remained. It was incredible how good a man could feel when he wasn’t being constantly kicked in the teeth. 

They’d been dating a few months when Vince received one last issue of Cheekbone. The last one before his subscription, which he hadn’t bothered to renew, ran out. 

They walked down the street. Howard carried his guitar case with one arm and a picnic basket in the other. Both looked rather heavy and Howard looked rather sweaty. Vince walked alongside him, fresh as a daisy, wearing a poncho, cowboy hat, and platform boots, carrying nothing. They arrived in the park. In short order they had everything set up. And just as they were about to start eating a ninja swung down from a tree and handed Vince his final issue of Cheekbone. Vince flipped it open to page 26. Just for old times sake. 

At spot number 1 on the worst dressed list, tied for first, were Vince Noir and Howard Moon.

Vince let out a loud cackle. Apparently the stage costumes (post-apocalyptic surfer) he’d designed for them to wear the other night had not been a hit with the fashion establishment. 

Howard asked just what exactly was so funny. Vince showed him the picture and Howard laughed as well. Vince tore out the page with their picture, to put on the fridge later. Then they threw the magazine aside. And kissed. And ate. And were happy. 

The End

  
  
  


  



End file.
